


Run Me Down

by 3raser (kay_elizabeth_roxx)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4833011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_elizabeth_roxx/pseuds/3raser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames are assassins hired to kill each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur smoothly scanned the folder in front of him, linking his fingers together idly as the man on the other side of the table watched him carefully. The man's face was half hidden in shadow, the lighting set low in some misguided attempt to create a menacing atmosphere. Arthur wasn't intimidated—he made it his job to know the people he worked for, front to back. He knew this man's name, where he worked, where he grew up. Arthur knew why he had a hit ordered on this Edward Eames, as well: something to do with a shady art forgery business conducted behind the scenes. 

And besides, darkness brought with it some measure of safety, a thick blanket in which to hide yourself away. Arthur knew, abstractly, that it would be far more terrifying to see your enemy's face under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights, and know that you were going to die.

“You're certain you'll be able to pull this off?” the other man asked, and his gruff, dark voice held no whisper of apprehension. That needed to be corrected, Arthur decided—a healthy amount of fear could only lead to respect. “That Eames is one slippery bastard.”

“You know my reputation,” Arthur replied, leaning forward and setting his elbows on the table, his eyes gleaming. “It kind of speaks for itself, doesn't it, Gary?”

Gary's face hardened almost imperceptibly, the lines darkening around his mouth, and Arthur sat back with the ghost of a smile, pleased. He would wonder how Arthur had found out his real name, of course...which would lead to the far more sinister question of what else he might have found out.

“You had better be prepared,” Gary said, something dangerous simmering in his voice now, and Arthur met and held his gaze, his fingers reaching to the small of his back. 

He came away with his Glock and set it carefully on the table, the dark metal shining like oil. His boot knife was next, followed by a smaller, silenced pistol tucked into an inside pocket. Gary's gaze remained impassive, at least until Arthur slid a tiny knife out of his tie, a semi-automatic out of his leg holster, and a curl of razor wire from somewhere in the vicinity of his shirt cuffs.

“You don't need to impress me with your artillery,” Gary said, his tone icy. “Let's just hope you can use it.”

“That,” Arthur assured him, sliding the weapons back into place with the ease of long practice, “I can do.”

~

Arthur only looked at the file in detail once he was in the comfort of his own apartment, curled up on his plush black sofa. The furniture around him was smooth, modern, and dark—some would claim the style to be a parallel of the man himself, but Arthur would have laughed at that assumption. Arthur had far, far sharper edges.

The photograph at the front of the file was sharp, and taken from a high vantage point. Edward Eames was in mid-step, cell phone at his ear, lush lips parted around a word. Arthur didn't let himself linger on the photo, instead jumping into the pages of text.

By the time Arthur finished, he knew one thing for certain: Gary and his people knew very, very little about this man. They had his address, but woefully little was known about his schedule or habits. And as far as Arthur could tell, Gary had no idea about Eames' career beyond, apparently, dealing in illegal art forgeries.

Arthur sighed and flipped the folder shut, blinking away the dryness of his contacts. It was inadequate intel, as far as he was concerned, but it was enough to do the job.

He opened his eyes again and flipped back to the photo, lingering there. Eames' jaw was shaded with stubble, his eyes hidden by huge, ridiculous aviator sunglasses. His body was hidden beneath some kind of unfortunate patterned shirt, but Arthur could make out strong shoulders and a broad chest, a fighter's build.

Arthur leaned back against the sofa and let himself imagine those large, capable hands wrapping around his hips, blunt nails digging into the flesh. Arthur dropped the file to the side and spread his legs, letting his hand drop down between them, rubbing at the bulge in his pants. He really wasn't a sadist (he was going to kill the man quickly and cleanly, not perform some kind of sexual ceremony, after all).... It had just been far, far too long since he'd taken someone to bed. 

One of the unfortunate things about being a professional hitman: there was always a chance of someone pressing a gun to your temple, even if that person happened to be the gorgeous man down the bar.

And this was just fine, anyway, stroking himself to gasping completion with the image of those lips burned into his mind.

~

“Well, that's that,” Eames said to nobody in particular, dumping Mr. Bender's body heavily into the bathtub. He landed with an unpleasant thunk, and Eames paused for a moment before pulling the shower curtain shut.

He tip-toed around the blood spatters on the tile, pausing at the sink to wipe a smear off his chin. The bathroom looked like the set of a bad horror movie, but, after all, cleaning up wasn't part of Eames' job description.

The living room was in absolute shambles, furniture toppled over on top of glinting, broken glass. And on top of it all was Mr. Bender's tiny calico kitten, staring up at him reproachfully from under the upturned sofa.

“Come on then, Kitty,” Eames briskly announced, tucking the indignantly meowing cat into the inner pocket of his jacket and locking the door behind him.

~

 

“So what has this Arthur done to get your panties in a twist, Mr. Stevens?” Eames smirked, sprawling leisurely across his side of the booth. They were tucked away into a private corner of the restaurant, courtesy of Mr. Stevens, of course. Eames ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, simply because, by now, no employer would expect any less of him.

Mr. Steven's expression, to his credit, didn't even twitch at Eames' crudely-phrased question. He did, however, level him with a flat stare before pushing a thin manila folder across the table.

“This will tell you all you need to know,” he diverted. “Which isn't much.”

Eames flicked open the folder, scanning the first page with a careless eye before shutting it again and tucking it into his briefcase. 

“I'm sure you know how I work, Mr. Stevens,” Eames stated, rolling a toothpick between his lips. “I don't pretend to make it pretty. But I can guarantee that it will never be traced back to you.”

“That's all I'm concerned with,” Mr. Stevens replied, and Eames grinned winningly, letting a drop of pasta sauce fall onto his shirt. Eames wore his dishevelment very well, and played it effortlessly to his advantage. Underestimating one's foe was often a fatal mistake, especially where Eames was concerned. 

“In that case,” Eames chirped, standing up from the table, “we should get along just swimmingly, Mr. Stevens.”

~

Ariadne spread a set of pictures in front of Arthur, tapping them one by one with a short fingernail, as if to count them. They were all glossy, new prints, showing various angles of a large, brick apartment building.

“This is where he lives,” she announced, pointing to one of the outside windows. “He has the entire second floor. There's no way you can get in through the main hallway short of breaking down the door. You won't be able to pick the locks.”

Arthur never second-guessed Ariadne—she was on the shadier side of “location scouting”, and had yet to led Arthur astray. So he simply nodded, flipping through the prints slowly, thoughtfully. “How can you tell what the inside is like?”

“I knocked, then said I had the wrong room,” Ariadne replied, smiling to herself. “Played the whole “blush and stutter” role, then ran off before he could ask who I was looking for. He fell for it, %100. Got a good look inside, though. It's mainly open; the bedroom's on the right down a little hall.”

She paused, eyes sparkling mischievously. “He's really very handsome.”

“Then why don't you just seduce him and save me the trouble of breaking in?” Arthur wryly suggested, and Ariadne laughed.

“I hate to put a damper on your plans, Arthur, but he's almost certainly gay,” Ariadne said, and Arthur raised his eyebrows, looking up at her. “Don't look at me like that; I can tell a gay man when I see one. And believe me, sweet pea, you'd have far more luck seducing him than I would.”

“I don't work like that,” Arthur simply replied, shrugging one shoulder, and Ariadne rolled her eyes. “It's far less messy to just go in and get the job done.”

“If you insist,” Ariadne said, pulling out another picture and pointing at it before continuing. “He has a back porch. If you can climb your way up there, as far as I can tell, the lock should be pretty simple to get through.

“Perfect,” Arthur replied, tucking his gun into his waistband at the small of his back. “I'll have one more satisfied customer by tomorrow night, at this rate.”

 

~

Arthur swung himself up onto Eames' balcony in a lithe flex of muscles—Eames' car was parked directly underneath it, making quite the convenient little platform. Forcing the back door lock was almost disgustingly simple, and he cautiously pushed his way inside, scanning the room with the muzzle of his gun. All was dark, and he moved silently through the house, having committed Ariadne's sketches of the layout to memory. 

Mr. Eames had very considerately left his bedroom door hanging wide open, and Arthur approached the doorway with caution, his eyes adjusting to the dimly-lit room. The lump in the bed was motionless as Arthur stood alongside, looking down the barrel at a head of sleep-mussed hair, pressed against the pillow.

His lips were slack with sleep, and Arthur's eyes lingered there for just a second too long before returning to his chest, where the bullet would drive home. He was obviously naked (or damn near close to it), his lower half twisted in a tangle of sheets. Curling, dark tattoos spanned his shoulders and chest, reflecting the silvery light spilling in through the blinds.

Arthur's finger tightened on the trigger, but he paused, eyebrows drawing together in frustration. Taking him silently in the middle of the night seemed wrong, somehow. This man could put up a good fight, judging by the width of his muscular shoulders, if he weren't caught unawares in sleep.

His finger slackened on the trigger, his nostrils flaring as he tucked it back into his waistband. It didn't mean anything, he told himself. It wasn't a weakness. He'd come back later and give this Mr. Eames a fair fight, and then one bullet from a silenced gun would bring an end to it all. 

And Arthur absolutely refused to consider what it would be like to be wrapped up with him in those wrinkled sheets, naked and sated in those strong, tattooed arms.

~ 

Mr. Stevens' research shed very little light on the enigma that was Arthur Cohen. In fact, the file outright said that that name was most likely an alias, and that his real name was not known.

The file spoke very little about the circumstances leading up to Mr. Stevens wanting him dead, but from what Eames could read between the lines, Arthur was involved in some kind of corporate espionage against Stevens. The reasoning behind the hit seemed more personal than convenience, at any rate.

Eames immediately latched onto one detail, however, looking over the file at dinner—Arthur often frequented a local gay bar and gentleman's club nearby, slipping in and out through the back door. 

A shiver of interest worked its way leisurely down Eames' spine at this new information, and he paused, considering. He was shrewd enough to know his own appeal, and how people looked at him. He could lure this Arthur home with him, perhaps, and finish the job quick and simple. 

Arthur's face was stern in the photographs, his no doubt beautiful body hidden behind the clean lines of his suit, and Eames could imagine him coming undone beneath him, mussing that perfectly slicked hair against the pillow. He'd be sweet and open, maybe even a little greedy when Eames pressed him back and kissed that mouth.

Arousal coiled in the pit of his stomach, but Eames forced it aside. That wouldn't work, he realized—Arthur had always left the club alone, according to the file.

Eames tried valiantly not to be disappointed by that.

~

The bar stank of cigarette smoke and liquor, and Eames loitered by the entrance, eyes fixed on the man nursing a beer at the end of the bar. Arthur was still wearing a dress shirt and slacks, but his tie was loosened around his neck, his collar unbuttoned. 

His dark hair curled loosely at the nape of his neck, and Eames licked his lips, eying the curve of his spine. Eames had to wonder, vaguely, what this gorgeous creature could possibly have done to warrant a quick, unceremonious death.

The lights were dim above the bar, and Eames started out across the room, eying his target. He walked casually in the direction of the restroom, the rhythm of his footsteps not even faltering as he lifted Arthur's cell phone smoothly from his pocket. 

He locked the bathroom door behind him, and flipped open Arthur's cellphone, scrolling quickly through his contacts. There was no “Mom” or “Dad” marked, which would be the obvious choice, so Eames scrolled to the top of the list and settled upon the first name. The contact was listed as “Ariadne :)”, and Eames smirked, changing the number listed to his own.

The dance floor was beginning to fill by the time Eames reemerged, and he slipped the cellphone easily back into Arthur's suit jacket, heading directly out the back door once he was finished.

He paused outside and leaned back against the wall, calling the cellphone number Mr. Stevens had provided. Sure enough, a man answered, his voice wry and tired.

“If you called to goad me for not getting it done last night, Ariadne,” Arthur started, “You'd better just hang up.”

Eames quirked an eyebrow, but assumed his best American accent and jumped in anyway, clearing his throat. “Arthur Cohen, yes? I'm sorry to bother you, but you were listed as an emergency contact for Ariadne--” 

He nearly faltered, realizing that he had no idea what her last name was, but caught himself swiftly and continued on anyway. “She's had an accident. She's been admitted to Downtown General Hospital. You'd better come right away.”

Arthur was silent for a beat, and when he replied his voice was tight and hurried, the sound of a bar stool scraping against the ground filtering through the cellphone speaker. “I'll be there in five minutes.”

“All right. Room 223,” Eames said, leisurely shutting the phone and flinging out an elbow as the club's back door flew open.

The blow connected heavily with Arthur's jaw, and he dropped like a stone just as the door swung shut behind him. Eames froze for a long moment, but when no one came to investigate, he stooped down next to the unconscious man and quickly propped him up against the wall.

Eames hadn't quite broken Arthur's nose, but it was gushing blood nevertheless, threatening to drip down onto his collar. His face was slack, dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, and Eames automatically retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, tipping Arthur's head back and pressing the cloth under his nose.

“You'll ruin your lovely suit, darling,” Eames murmured, cradling the back of Arthur's head and thumbing across his soft, pale cheek. He was small and compact, but Eames could feel hardened muscles hiding just beneath the neat lines of his suit. “That won't do at all.”

Soon the blood flow had stopped, and Eames wiped off Arthur's chin with a clean patch of handkerchief, tucking the entire ruined cloth into his pocket once he was done. Arthur's face was swelling already, a bruise spreading across the skin where Eames' elbow had connected, and Eames flinched, careful to avoid touching the tender spot.

“Bloody hell,” Eames sighed, dropping Arthur back against the wall. “What am I doing?”

Arthur didn't offer up a response, and Eames sighed again, touching his thumb to the corner of the other man's mouth. He really was fascinating to look at; all sharp angles and smooth curves, the bow of his lips slack as they would be in sleep, or after they had been kissed raw.

Eames dug Arthur's cellphone out of his pocket and erased his number from Ariadne's contact, before replacing the phone and staring down at the other man for a long moment.

“You'd be an absolute prat if I tried to kiss you,” Eames predicted, sitting back onto his heels and watching as Arthur's face began to twitch back into wakefulness. “I can imagine it already.”

Arthur's eyes began to move beneath their lids, signaling his impending return to consciousness, and Eames hauled himself up off the cement, disappearing out of the alleyway before he could think too closely about what he was doing.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur woke up slowly, painfully, wincing as his entire face throbbed. His stomach twisted, and he opened his eyes expecting to find himself strapped to a chair in some dingy basement—but no, he was still sprawled out on the pavement behind the bar the brick wall behind him digging into his spine.

He gingerly pressed his fingertips to his jaw, scouting out the wound and finding it tender and swollen. It wasn't broken, luckily, nor was his nose.

He dragged himself to his feet and quickly checked his pockets, fingers rifling through his things. His wallet, keys and cellphone were all where he had left them, and his gun was undisturbed, tucked into the waistband of his pants. Then he remembered the phone call he'd received just before leaving the bar, and he fumbled his phone out of his pocket, flipping it open.

He stared down at it, puzzled and alarmed—Ariadne's number was gone from his contacts. He dialed it in from memory and waited impatiently as it rang, tapping his foot against the pavement. A thousand different scenarios ran through his mind: kidnappings and ransoms and red strains on sterile white floors. And if someone had hurt her, Arthur would hunt them down and kill them ruthlessly, soaked in their own blood.

She answered on the fourth ring, and Arthur took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to compose himself.

“Ariadne. Are you okay?”

“Of course I am,” she replied, perplexed and vaguely worried. “Arthur? What's the matter?”

“I just got a call,” he explained, slowly. “It said it was from your phone. And a man said you'd been in an accident, and I needed to get to the hospital right away. I was out getting a drink, and when I left, someone knocked me out in the back alleyway.”

“Oh my god,” Ariadne gasped, her voice lowering. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

“I'm fine,” Arthur assured her, choosing to ignore his pulsing jaw and nose. “But I have no idea what happened. Your contact was deleted from my phone when I woke up—someone must have lifted it in the bar and changed the numbers or something.”

“Did they take anything?” Ariadne questioned, and Arthur shook his head before realizing she couldn't see him.

“No,” he answered, taking another quick inventory. “Which makes this far more unsettling than if they had. Why the fuck am I still alive, if this wasn't a robbery?”

“An angry ex-employer, maybe?” Ariadne suggested, and Arthur paused for a moment to consider. It was certainly a possibility—although he couldn't remember pissing off an employer recently, it had happened before.

“But they would have killed me,” Arthur repeated, frustrated, pacing back and forth down the alleyway. “Or at least have taken me hostage. Who in their right mind would hire someone to knock me out and leave me in an alley?”

“A warning?” she suggested, barely a whisper, the sound filtering tinnily through the speaker.

“I don't know,” Arthur groaned, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. He had a splitting headache. “I need to go home.”

He stopped by the entrance to the alleyway, swallowing hard a few times to clear the black spots from his vision.

“I'll make some calls; see if I can dig up something,” Arthur said, trotting over to his car and slipping inside. “If not, I'll finish this job up and leave the country for a while.”

“All right,” Ariadne replied, worry still tinging her voice. “Be careful, big bro. Keep your eyes open.”

“Always,” Arthur confirmed, hanging up the phone.

~

Forcing Eames' back door lock was just as simple as before, but this time Arthur simply kicked the door open, too impatient for stealth. The lights were on in the apartment, but nobody was in the main room. 

Arthur scanned the hallway carefully down the barrel of his gun, noticing that the bathroom door was cracked. All was silent inside, save for the soft noise of running water, and Arthur nudged the door open with his toe, finger tightening on the trigger.

The wet, whirring sounds were coming from the bathroom's large jacuzzi tub, and Arthur lowered his Glock, cocking an eyebrow. Eames was sprawled out in the tub, bubbles frothing around him, his head resting against the edge of the tub. His snoring was just barely audible over the noise of the jets.

Arthur carefully set his gun on the sink, before unknotting his tie and laying it over the towel rack. Mr. Eames was quite a spectacle—Arthur ignored the way his cheeks flushed at the sight, thankful that the water's bubbling more or less covered the other man.

His shoes were next to go, followed by his dress shirt. This left him in just his slacks and undershirt, and he cracked his neck absently, circling behind Eames' head. From here he could almost see down the line of his body, but Arthur focused determinedly on his face, taking a moment to relax his muscles. He said he'd give this man a fighting chance before killing him, and this was his Arthur's opportunity.

Plus, he wouldn't have to worry about mopping up all of the blood this way.

His pounce was quick and calculated, sending him sailing into Eames' lap and giving him time to get a firm grip on his arms and head. Water surged around them, cascading onto the floor and soaking the tile, and Eames jerked under his hands, fighting Arthur's grip when he forced him under the water.

Eames' body was slippery and strong, Arthur's nails skidding against curling black ink, and Arthur closed his eyes, just holding on. Eames' hips were bucking beneath him, trying to throw him off-balance, and Arthur bit his lip, writhing against his naked body as he fought to keep hold of him.

Eventually Eames' struggles weakened, but Arthur kept his grip tight, lips thinning as the larger man's muscles slackened. Once Arthur was satisfied that he was unconscious, he slid gracelessly from the tub, skidding across the slick tile. He turned off the jets and pulled Eames out after him when he didn't move, his body landing on the floor with a heavy, wet thunk.

He's still alive, Arthur realized, feeling for his pulse. And God, his body was fucking gorgeous, slick wet and shining; he was gorgeous. And he was turning blue.

“Fuck,” Arthur intoned, hating himself even as he opened Eames' airway and latched onto his plump, soft lips, breathing evenly into his mouth. He didn't look at Eames' face, either, not until he choked and gasped for breath, rolling onto his side and throwing up bathwater all over the already flooded tile.

Arthur stumbled up and shoved his gun into his waistband, tucking his jacket under his arm and grabbing his shoes before racing for the door. Behind him, Eames was still gasping, eyelashes clinging wetly to his cheeks, and he never even caught a glance of Arthur's back as he slammed the door behind him.

~

“Someone tried to drown me in my own bloody fucking bathtub, Yusuf,” Eames huffed. “You don't seem to understand that fact.”

“I understand it,” Yusuf contradicted, mildly, and Eames could just imagine him shrugging. “But you got checked out by a doctor, and he said you were fine, right? So it seems to me that you just got a chance to wiggle around with a muscular man in your bathtub, naked.”

“An event which happened to end up with me not breathing,” Eames reminded him, and Yusuf made that same noncommittal sound again.

“I know how your lecherous mind works, Eames,” Yusuf stated. “Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it.”

Eames grunted his disagreement—never mind that he might have enjoyed it, if the lithe little thing writhing up against his cock wasn't trying to drown him at the same time. 

“This,” Eames replied, “Is why no one likes you but your cat. And even Mr. Snuffles is not a sure thing.”

“Hey, watch it,” Yusuf warned. “Or he might poop in your shoe again.”

“Can we put aside talk of your disgustingly egotistical cat,” Eames begged, “and start talking about how the fuck I'm going to finish this hit and get out of the city?”

“I'll send you something tomorrow,” Yusuf finally sighed. “And did you finally replace that rattly back door lock?”

“Yes,” Eames grumbled, before hanging up the phone.

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing heavily and dragging the dark, silk tie between his fingers. His attacker had left it behind on the towel wrack, and Eames wrapped it around his fist, feeling the material slip against his flesh. The fabric smelled vaguely of expensive cologne, something rich and earthy, and Eames set it aside, resisting the urge to press it to his face.

He needed to finish this hit, Eames realized, his lips pulling into a resigned frown. And fast.

~

Eames found a paper bag on his kitchen table the next day, and he opened it cautiously, taking out Yusuf's note and scanning the text.

Eames-

Press the big red button once and GET OUT OF THE ROOM! It's a gas capsule. It'll be over in five minutes.

Y.

Eames pulled out the contents of the bag, curiously turning the small rectangle of plastic around in his hand. It came complete with a detonator, conspicuously adorned with a large, red button.

It fit nicely into his pocket, and he turned, heading back out to his car. He had no desire to relive the bathtub incident—the faster Arthur was taken care of, the faster he could get out of town.

The building was as posh as the man himself—it was a high-end complex in the best part of town, complete with a doorman. But he turned away from the building, heading into the private parking complex across the street instead. 

He walked through the entrance with purpose, hands tucked into his pockets, and the man in the podium didn't even spare him a second glance. That was one thing Eames had learned early on: you could get inside just about anywhere, simply by acting like you had every right in the world to be there.

Arthur's car was easy enough to identify, a glossy, black foreign affair tucked neatly into the corner of the third level, and Eames pulled the clothes hanger from inside his jacket, approaching the window. This was a skill he'd carried over from his questionable childhood years, and it had proved useful to him more than once since then. 

After a few minutes of careful manipulation, the driver's side lock clicked open, and Eames smiled, opening the door. The capsule fit under the driver's seat quite nicely, and Eames locked the car behind him, retreating around the corner. It was nearly 9 o'clock on a Friday, and Arthur, true to form, approached his car nearly on the hour. He was dressed for the bar: unbuttoned collar and rolled up sleeves, his slacks accentuating the full curve of his arse.

Eames watched closely as Arthur slid inside the car buckled up, turning the key. The car purred to life just as Eames pressed the detonator's button, and the dark-haired man inside the car tensed immediately, aware that something was not right.

And then, quickly, horribly, he dissolved into fits of coughing, shoulders hunching as he gagged. Eames watched with dark eyes as he fumbled with his seat belt, opening the car door and falling out onto the pavement once it disengaged. Arthur's face was pale and taut, his eyes bloodshot as he tried to drag himself to his feet.

Eames had one clear, pulsing moment of regret, and then Arthur collapsed, hitting the pavement with a heavy thunk.

Eames rushed to his side, bunching his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. It wouldn't help one bit, not if the volatile gas was still in the air, but he couldn't make himself turn and leave Arthur there, crumbled on the pavement.

His pulse was weak and fluttery, despite his fast, shallow breaths, and Eames dialed Yusuf with shaking fingers.

“Yusuf,” he barked, once the other man answered, “What's the antidote for the gas you gave me?”

“Why do you need the antidote?” Yusuf questioned, skeptical. “You couldn't have possibly made it go off on yours—“

“I need the antidote,” Eames hissed, drawing Arthur's head to rest on his thigh. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“It's a pretty simple compound, most hospitals have access to it,” Yusuf began, before rattling off the name and formula when Eames growled impatiently. “The victim needs to be injected with it directly into the bloodstream, okay?”

Eames hung up without a goodbye, before dialing 911. The operator answered on the second ring, and Eames sucked in a breath, his free hand fluttering over Arthur's brow.

“I'm in a parking garage, and a man just collapsed,” Eames told her, words running into one another in his haste to get them out. He gave her the address, and told her that yes, of course he would stay with him until the medics arrived. 

Once he'd ended the call, he held his breath and dug through Arthur's car, finding a small Moleskine tucked into the glove compartment. A pen was clipped to its side, and Eames flipped it open, hastily scrawling Yusuf's instructions onto a blank page.

He tore it out, throwing the notebook back into the car and turning towards Arthur. He was still motionless, breaths gasping and weak, and Eames tucked the note under the collar of his shirt, hoping they would find it there.

Eames' didn't have time to wonder at the strong, visceral reaction he had to watching this beautiful man die—so instead he turned on his heel and ran, footsteps slapping against the pavement.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur came in through the club's front door, this time.

Being gassed and left on the ground, presumed to be dead by the hitman? That made sense. Some kind stranger finding him there, calling 911, and running off before the medics arrived? That was a little unlikely, a little strange, but still safely in the realm of “logical”. But the instructions to save him being tucked into his shirt? Now that.... That was where the questions truly began.

The gas was engineered by an extremely skilled chemist, or so the doctor told him. Had he not been given the antidote, he would have died by slow asphyxiation, even after being removed from the source of the gas. 

Not the worst way to die, Arthur mused, but certainly, certainly not the most pleasant.

The club's dance track kicked in, then: a low, thumping bass line, and Arthur rubbed at his temples, downing the rest of his drink. He was just considering going home, when a large figure took a seat next to him, motioning the bartender over.

The man ordered a whiskey, his voice low and distinctly British, and Arthur turned his head, eyes landing upon Eames' profile. 

_What a convenient coincidence,_ Arthur smiled to himself, eying Eames' stubbled jaw. Ariadne was right about his preferences, after all.

Eames glanced over at him, smiling slightly when he caught Arthur's eye. He winked outrageously, raising his glass, and Arthur turned his head, fighting down a grin. Eames looked well put together, for someone who had nearly drowned in his own bathtub.

“What brings you here tonight, kitten?” Eames asked, leaning his elbow against the bar, and Arthur raised an eyebrow, giving him a once-over. Everything about this man, from his unfortunate patterned shirt to his language, screamed “over-the-top”. But paired with his looks, and those big, broad shoulders—it was anything but off-putting.

Arthur shifted his posture slightly, opening his legs and raising his eyebrows in a silent welcome. He knew how to play his looks to his advantage, and Eames noticed, his eyes darkening. Arthur smiled—luring him home would be easy, as would dispatching him once they got there. Fate was on his side, it seemed, tonight.

“Just drinking away a hard day at work,” Arthur replied, raising his glass and meeting Eames' eyes flirtatiously as he did so. “What about you?”

“Oh, you know,” Eames flippantly replied, leaning a little closer, “Just looking to relax for a while. But I must say, I never expected to find such lovely men in this little hole-in-the-wall.”

Despite using “men” in the plural, Eames only had eyes for him, and Arthur shifted into the hand Eames' laid on his knee, secretly pleased. Eames' attention was flattering in its intensity, and Arthur felt heat gathering at the base of his spine, hooding his eyes. It was only half an act—Eames really was very attractive, thick with musculature, his full lips hinting at sordid promises.

“Would you like to dance?” Eames asked, after a few moments of heavy silence, and Arthur tilted his head, letting Eames' hand sneak up his thigh.

“I don't dance, Mr. …?” Arthur replied, trailing off, and Eames grinned, revealing white, slightly crooked teeth. 

“Eames,” he purred, leaning closer yet and tracing his fingers lightly behind Arthur's ear. “What about you, darling?”

“Arthur,” Arthur replied, and Eames smiled, thumbing the inseam of his slacks.

“Well then, Arthur,” Eames purred, low in his throat, “If you don't dance.... What do you do?”

There was a secret edge to the question, hinting at sweat and sheets, and Arthur smirked.

“What are you offering, Mr. Eames?” Arthur questioned, looking up at him through his lashes and quirking his lips.

“Whatever you'd like, darling,” Eames promised, his voice grating in a way that made an honest-to-god flash of lust spike up Arthur's spine. “I'll give you whatever you like.”

Arthur watched him, watched the easy spread of his thighs, and swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. His lips were so full, and so very, very close.

“Your place?” Arthur murmured, remembering the parking garage, and Eames nodded, kissing him briefly, hotly, before laying a hand on the small of his back and leading him out.

~

Eames, Arthur thought to himself, was built like a tank.

Arthur studied Eames' posture surreptitiously as he looked around the flat, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Eames wasn't any taller than him, but far broader—killing him by hand would be risky. Arthur had seen the scars on his knuckles; he didn't doubt that Eames could throw a punch if given reason to.

“Do you have anything to drink, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked, walking casually towards the kitchen and thinking, _knives_ —cleaning up the blood was always a pain in the ass, but in his line of work, sacrifices had to be made.

“Come now, darling,” Eames rumbled, closer behind him than Arthur had anticipated, “Let's skip the silly formalities, shall we?”

He paused, laying his hands on his hips and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “We both know why you're here, Arthur.”

A shiver laced its way up Arthur's spine, threatening to melt his guard, but he clenched his jaw and pushed the feeling away. When he pushed his arse back against Eames' hips just slightly, it was a purely calculated move, distracting Eames easily enough.

“You won't even have a glass of wine with me?” Arthur questioned, his tone light and teasing as he calculated the distance to the knife block on the counter. 

“I'd rather not wait, pet,” Eames admitted, clamping a hand onto the back of his neck and swinging him around before Arthur could grab for a weapon.

Arthur gasped, caught off balance, and he would have driven the heel of his hand into Eames' nose had the other man not pulled him close and kissed him instead.

Soft, sexy lips latched onto his own, and Arthur clenched his fingers into Eames' shirt, for lack of anything better to do with them. Eames' mouth tasted like whiskey and smoke, and he wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist, fingers wrinkling the back of his dress shirt. And oh, Eames' kissed _dirty:_ all nip and pull and take, selfish and fantastic, and Arthur pulled back first, staring up at him breathless and shocked silent.

“Haven't been with anyone in a while, have you, darling?” Eames inquired, smoothing a hand down Arthur's tense back and smirking. “Been wanting someone to fill you up?”

Arthur's mouth worked silently as he desperately tried to compose himself, but Eames just turned and kissed the breath out of him again, hand dropping down to grope below his waist.

The warmth of Eames' palm seeped through his slacks, and Arthur groaned, his head tipping back instinctively for Eames' mouth. His hand was quick and capable, rubbing his half-hard cock, and Arthur knew there was no escape, not this time.

They made it inside the bedroom after a hasty fumble at the door, grasping at each other and kissing wetly, and, once inside, Eames shoved Arthur into the wall with no lack of force, his bony shoulder blades cracking against the plaster. Arthur moaned; he loved it, loved feeling Eames' thick shoulders they pushed off their shirts.

He mouthed across the dark ink of his tattoos, then, rubbing himself up against his body, and Eames lifted him with seemingly no effort, his biceps bulging as he threw him bodily onto the mattress. Arthur bounced into the pillows, stunned, and Eames crawled up on top of him, sighing against his lips.

“'Mm gonna play with you all night, kitten,” Eames promised, licking into his mouth, and Arthur choked on a moan, his lips slick and open. “Gonna show you how good my cock can make you feel, yeah?”

“Please,” Arthur managed, his heart thundering in his chest. The still-rational part of his mind was horrified that he was writhing on his mark's bed, begging like a slut when he should be killing him—but the rest of him just wanted a thick cock deep inside of him, fucking him loose while a broad torso pinned him to the mattress.

“Let's see what's under all this pomp,” Eames teased, thumbing open the buttons of his shirt, and Arthur buried his face into the crook of his arm, thighs straining beneath his slacks. What the fuck am I doing, he asked himself, the thought erased from his mind a moment later by a pair of thick, soft lips parting over his nipple.

Arthur gasped, cheeks flaming as he arched into the touch. Eames' hands were spread over his torso, accentuating the thinness of his waist, and Arthur fumbled for some semblance of control, flipping them over with a nimble flick of his hips.

Eames stared up at him, surprised but pleased, quirking those full fucking lips, and Arthur smirked back, grinding his hips down against Eames'. Eames' fingers curled into his belt loops, dragging the waistband of his pants down a bit, and Arthur chewed his lip when Eames' grasped him through the fabric, rubbing his erection. 

“Let's lose a few layers, eh?” Eames suggested, the breeziness of his voice somewhat undermined by his hot, dilated eyes, and Arthur obliged him, wiggling out of his pants and boxers before mounting him again.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Eames grunted, eying the red, swollen curve of his cock, and Arthur bent over him, sucking kisses against that red, swollen mouth. He fumbled with the button of Eames' pants, struggling to push them off as Eames latched onto his mouth again and again, stubble scratching at his cheeks.

Soon enough he was naked, and Arthur settled into Eames' lap, his balls pressed flush against Eames'. Their teeth clashed, kisses sloppy and delicious, and Eames fumbled blindly into the bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lubricant.

“Get yourself ready for me, love,” Eames breathed against his mouth, pressing Arthur's cock up against his stomach with a big, warm palm, and Arthur bucked into the touch, dripping lube messily across his hand. “Wanna see you spread yourself open over my hips.”

“Stop talking,” Arthur hissed, shoving his fingers roughly into his clenching hole, and Eames, surprisingly, complied, too busy gaping at the slick clutch of muscle between Arthur's arsecheeks to comment.

Eames somehow managed to roll on a condom, spilling the lube all across his stomach almost simultaneously, but Arthur grasped Eames' cock anyway, leading it to his needy hole and pushing down against him without pause. 

Eames choked, bucking up into him, and Arthur moaned, letting his head fall back as he worked himself down onto Eames' blunt cock. Thick fingers dug into his thighs, curling around the sharp angle of his hips as Arthur settled down into the mess of lube coating Eames' lower stomach. Eames' cock was pulsing inside of him, and Arthur's balls tightened with the burn of it, his dick bobbing lewdly between his thighs as Eames grasped his hips and bounced him.

“Fuck, look at you,” Eames grunted, and Arthur pressed his hands into the coiled musculature of Eames' shoulders, leaning down to take his mouth. They rutted together for a few minutes, just like that, rough and messy and out of rhythm, and Arthur couldn't ever remember anything feeling better.

“Yeah, moan for me, kitten,” Eames encouraged, when Arthur choked back a groan of pleasure, his dick angry-red and leaking against his stomach. “I can just imagine how you'd sound after I spent all night eating out your tight little arsehole—you'd let me keep going, even after you were raw and dripping, wouldn't you, darling?”

Arthur's hole clenched at the pure filth pouring out of Eames' mouth, and Eames latched onto the curve of his shoulder in reply, biting down hard. Arthur cried out, the pain and pleasure mixing dizzily in his gut, and Eames hooked a leg around his hip, rolling them over without ever pulling out of Arthur's body.

Eames' heavy torso pinned him against the sheets, propped up on his forearms, and Arthur twined his legs around his waist, feeling Eames' muscles working beneath the curve of his calves. His thrusts were brutal, and Arthur cried out against the panting bow of his lips, raking his nails across the back of Eames' neck. 

This was instinctive and rough, honest-to-god fucking, and Arthur moaned without inhibition, scratching wildly at Eames' shoulders. He was usually a bottom, sure, but he'd never before wanted to be dominated like this, pushed down and bitten and _fucked._

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” Eames rumbled into his ear, tongue snaking out against the delicate shell, and Arthur nodded, hoping vaguely that the neighbors weren't home as the headboard rattled against the wall. 

He lost that train of thought a moment later when Eames arched down into him, his taut, flat stomach rubbing against Arthur's dick, and that was all he needed to reach orgasm, throwing his head back and shooting his load all over Eames' chest.

Eames' hips slammed against his arse one, two, three more times before he followed, holding the other man's thighs apart with open palms and coming with a shout, Arthur's name on his lips.

Arthur let Eames climb off of him, then, leaving him limp and gasping for breath, his previously-gelled hair mussed wildly against the pillow. 

The man he was supposed to have killed, like, six days ago, had just given him the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life, Arthur mused—Maybe fate wasn't on his side after all.

Eames collapsed heavily beside him, rattling the bed frame, and Arthur raised an eyebrow when the larger man snaked an arm around his waist, nuzzling into his neck.

“Don't tell me.... You like to _cuddle?”_ Arthur wheezed, and Eames grinned against his throat, completely ignoring the jizz plastering them together.

“What, and you don't?” Eames jested, his large hands engulfing Arthur's hips, and Arthur grunted, shoving at his shoulder half-heartedly.

“We aren't sleeping like this,” Arthur insisted, and Eames chuckled, nosing behind his ear.

“Believe me, kitten,” Eames promised, fingers fanning out across his stomach, “We aren't even close to finished.”


	4. Chapter 4

Eames woke up to find a very warm and mostly naked Arthur in his arms, and he grinned to himself, nuzzling lightly at the base of his neck. Not a cuddler, his arse.

He rolled over and stretched against the mattress, sighing when his back popped pleasantly. His muscles ached like they normally did the morning after a good, hard fuck, and Eames couldn't bring himself to regret not killing Arthur last night when he had the chance.

Although, judging by Arthur's prone form, he still had the chance.

The wrinkled sheets, and marble-pale form tangled in them, called to Eames, but he dragged himself lazily from the bed despite his impulses, rooting around the the floor for a pair of pajama bottoms.

A pair was tangled underneath Arthur's slacks, and Eames pushed them aside with his toe, pausing when he felt the bulge of a wallet. He glanced furtively over at Arthur's motionless form, before bending down and digging it out, flipping through it curiously.

There was a few hundred dollars cash inside, and Eames thumbed it aside, looking through the cards. The first few weren't anything out of the ordinary—an ID, a Mastercard, a dry cleaner's business card.

But Eames paused on the fourth item, lips slowly parting as something like realization flashed through his mind. It was a small photograph, creased at one corner.

It was a picture of Eames, mid-stride, talking on his cellphone.

“Bloody hell,” Eames whispered, too busy staring at the photo to notice Arthur sitting up in bed across the room.

Eames spun around to face him, dropping the wallet just as Arthur's eyes went from sleepy-sated to sharp and dangerous. A flash of oily-black metal, and suddenly Eames own silenced .45 was aimed at his head, held steady in Arthur's grip.

“I'd suggest you stay still, Mr. Eames,” Arthur murmured, voice like silk, and Eames' eyes darkened.

“Now how did you manage to get a hold of my gun, love?” Eames asked, and Arthur shrugged one shoulder, carefully extricating his legs from the blankets.

“I found it in your closet when I poked around last night,” Arthur answered, as if it were the most perfectly reasonable thing in the world to be digging through your one-night-stand's closet at 3 a.m.

“It seems I should have killed you while I had the chance, huh, darling?” Eames chuckled, self-deprecating. “Yusuf's gas capsule really was top-notch.”

Genuine shock flashed in Arthur's eyes, and he lowered the muzzle of the gun just slightly, eyebrows drawing together. “That was you?”

“Of course it was me,” Eames snapped. “I am a fucking assassin, after all. I figured the person who ordered the hit on me would have at least told you that much.”

“They didn't,” Arthur replied, flat and hard, and Eames' smirked.

“Apparently neither of us knew very much about the other,” Eames grinned, all bravado. “Edward Eames, love. Best hitman in the business.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur scoffed, bringing the gun back up in a flurry of movement as Eames' dived at him.

Eames managed to slam himself into Arthur's arm, butchering his aim, and the bullet embedded itself into the ceiling somewhere above them, cracking the plaster. The weapon tumbled to the ground, nearly followed by Eames when a punch to the jaw sent him reeling, black spots dancing before his eyes.

“Arthur Cohen,” Arthur growled, pressing Eames' neck into the bed with his forearm. “Best hitman in the business, asshole.”

“We'll see about that, now won't we?” Eames choked out, before throwing Arthur off the bed and into the wall.

Arthur's head cracked against the plaster, and his body crumpled to the floor, stunned by the blow. Before Eames could call victory, however, Arthur was collecting himself and lunging for the gun on the ground, lying half-hidden underneath the dresser. His hand wrapped around the shiny metal, his finger very nearly finding the trigger, but Eames took full advantage of his slight timing blunder, grabbing his wrist and slamming it hard into the wall.

A grunt of pain passed Arthur's lips, the weapon flying from his grip, and Eames scrabbled at the ground for it, his face very nearly the victim of Arthur's swift, vicious kick. Arthur's toe clipped the gun instead, however, sending it skidding across the floor, and neither of them could move fast enough to prevent it from being lost deep beneath the dresser.

“Fuck,” Eames growled, and Arthur, ever the lovely fellow, took the opportunity to slam his fist into Eames' jaw.

The angle wasn't quite right to knock him out, but Eames staggered backwards nonetheless, slamming heavily into the dresser and sending everything on top cascading to the floor. His jaw stung (it hadn't broken, thankfully), but he made a quick recovery regardless, taking Arthur by surprise with a swift jab to the kidney.

Arthur blocked the next jab neatly, swinging for Eames' face again, but Eames' absorbed the blow with his shoulder, gritting his teeth and lashing out. 

His fingers connected with Arthur's neck, and he pushed, shoving him back into the wall with a hand wrapped around his neck. Eames' quickly plastered himself against Arthur's front, tightening his grip threateningly, and Arthur thrashed against him, fighting even as he choked.

“Come now, love,” Eames murmured, loosening his grip just the slightest bit, “Is this really any way to treat someone who showed you so much hospitality?”

“Fuck you,” Arthur gasped, complexion tinged purple with oxygen deprivation, and Eames released Arthur's throat in favor of gathering up his wrists, trapping them against the wall above his head.

Arthur's body was all lean, straining sinew, not an inch of space between them, and Eames dragged Arthur's wrists higher up the wall, feeling the way it stretched his body upwards, his back bowing helplessly into Eames.

“That's not what you said last night in bed, darling,” Eames reminded him, a chuckle rumbling against his ear, and Arthur growled, Eames' muscles bulging with the effort of keeping him still. “You were the one begging for my cock, begging for me to fill you up.”

“Get off of me, you fuck,” Arthur demanded, baring his teeth, and Eames nudged their hips together, raising an eyebrow when he felt the hardness in Arthur's briefs.

“Ahh,” Eames purred, knowingly, and Arthur flushed, suddenly, gorgeously. “Does this turn you on, kitten? You like it when I throw you around, huh?”

“No, I—” Arthur began, eyes blazing, his protests cut short with a muffled “hrrmmmpf” when Eames took his mouth.

It was simply self-preservation at first, keeping Arthur distracted until he could think of a better way to dispatch the insufferable twat, but soon Arthur was wiggling against him, half pushing forwards, half jerking away. Their hips were flush, thin cotton the only thing between them, and Eames' cock twitched, stiffening between his thighs. 

Arthur tensed abruptly, breaking Eames' grip on him with a hard twist of his wrists, and Eames struggled to get a hold of his waist, scrabbling at the bare skin. Arthur shoved at Eames' hands, a growl rumbling deep in his throat as he clawed brutally at Eames' shoulders. But he was kissing back, Eames realized, his mouth hungry and slick, and Eames' hands clamped around his slender waist, driving him back against the side table.

Arthur's hip collided heavily with the piece of furniture, the lamp tumbling to the floor with a thud and a tinkle of broken glass, and Arthur gasped in pain, his swollen, angry-red cockhead peeking out over the waistband of his underwear.

Thick fingers hooked into the cotton, dragging it down Arthur's hips, and the smaller man moaned, his cock curving up against his belly once it was freed. It looked delicious, and Eames' licked his lips, grabbing Arthur by the thighs and lifting him easily.

Arthur yelped in a rather undignified fashion, and he clung to Eames' broad form as his legs struggled for purchase around his waist, heels digging into the muscular curve of his arse. His dick was slick and hot, pushed between their torsos, and Eames ravaged his mouth, tongue playing sensually against Arthur's.

The bed springs squeaked in protest as Eames threw Arthur unceremoniously onto the mattress, his shoulders hanging off the side of the bed, and Arthur reached for him, biting viciously at his full bottom lip. The pain lanced down Eames' spine, lust pooling in his gut, and he moaned unabashedly, wiggling down to taste Arthur's cock.

Arthur smelled of sweat and musk, his cock stiff and leaking, and Eames buried his nose into his dark, curling pubic hair, breathing deep as his nails dug crescents into the other man's thighs. Eames licked a broad stripe up the underside of his cock, then, gathering up the slick trail of precome on his tongue, and Arthur groaned, hips arching off the bed as Eames sucked him down.

“Get your hips up here, you fuckhead,” Arthur demanded, tugging hard at his hair, and Eames smirked at the profanity, swiveling his body around.

Arthur moaned against his groin, smoothing his hands down Eames' back and taking his cock into his mouth, loving the feel of so much bulk poised over top of him. Arthur tongued his way over the foreskin, sliding it back with his fist to lick around the head, and Eames' eyes fluttered, Arthur's cock pulsing in his mouth as his throat convulsed around the head.

“Mmm, you're still all red and tender for me,” Eames rumbled, pulling off and rubbing his index finger firmly over Arthur's hole, and Arthur choked on his mouthful of cock, spreading his thighs against the comforter. 

Eames' grinned in delight, rolling off of Arthur and to roll on a condom and grab for the lube—Arthur got to it first, however, and he popped the cap, his shaky hands spilling it all over Eames' lap.

“If you smirk at me one more time, I will fucking murder you in your sleep,” Arthur threatened, throwing the bottle off of the bed as Eames fought down his instinctive shit-eating grin.

“Thought you already tried that, kitten,” Eames purred, and Arthur's eyes flashed dangerously before a well-aimed shove sent him tumbling off the bed. The side table shook loudly as he landed awkwardly on his arse and elbows, his eyes wide with surprise, and Arthur slithered down into his lap, mounting him like a bitch in heat.

Eames' collapsed back against the carpet, moaning low in his throat as Arthur's tight, slick heat clamped down around him. Arthur threw his head back and bit at his pretty bottom lip, one slender hand rubbing his own erection as he squeezed his thighs tight around Eames' hips and fucked himself back onto his cock. Their thighs glistened with lube, the slap of skin-on-skin obscene as Arthur rode Eames, his own dick bobbing swollen and flushed between his legs.

It was good, _so fucking good_ when Arthur dug his nails into his shoulders, his lean thighs straining as he bucked down against Eames' pelvis. His rhythm was non-existent, nothing but velvet-soft, clutching muscle, and Eames planted his feet firmly onto the ground, gaining enough leverage to shove himself up into Arthur's body.

Arthur moaned in approval, his hand flying to his dick as his voice cracked on a litany of “oh oh oh.” Eames dragged Arthur's hand away from his cock, earning himself a groan of displeasure, before leading it down to feel where he was stretching Arthur open.

“Feel yourself all stretched out around me?” Eames asked, and Arthur choked on a breath of air in reply, fingers dragging along Eames' cock as it drove into him. “Bloody fucking hell, darling. Can you feel your greedy little hole eating me up?”

“More,” Arthur rumbled, slender body glistening with sweat, and Eames flipped him onto his hands and knees, ignoring Arthur's keening protests. Arthur's hole was shiny wet with lube, the little pink pucker of muscle clenching spasmodically, and Eames' big hands clamped around his hips, cock sliding deep into his heat.

Arthur let loose an impressive string of swearwords, and Eames' eyes dropped to the pale curve of his back, watching him shudder uncontrollably as he knotted a hand into his hair. Arthur's throat was snow-white and exposed, his eyes half-mast with desire, and Eames held Arthur's hips steady with his free hand, pelvis smacking loudly against the smaller man's arse.

A groan of something that could have been pain vibrated low in Arthur's throat, but he only whined and shoved his ass back against Eames' hips, thighs trembling as he took the brutal fuck Eames was offering him. Arthur's arms wobbled and gave out, pitching him face-first into the soft carpet, but Eames only tangled his fingers tighter into Arthur's dark hair in response, pressing Arthur's cheek into the floor.

“You have such a sweet hole, darling,” Eames grunted, raking his nails down Arthur's back and watching in fascination as he arched into the biting touch, breath ragged. “Wish I could be inside you all the time, feeling you all hot and wet, trying not to come all over yourself....”

“Jesus Christ, Eames,” Arthur choked, moaning into the carpet as his cock twitched between his thighs, come spurting across his stomach in short arcs. Spasms wracked his slender frame, the velvety vice of his body milking Eames' cock, and Eames threw his head back, biting his bottom lip and orgasming with a long, low groan.

Their heartbeats thundered in the silence for a few moments, before Eames carefully removed his fingers from Arthur's hair, smoothing the tangled strands with his palm. He took Arthur's hips in his hands, pulling out of him, and when he released them Arthur simply collapsed to the ground, cheek pressed flat to the carpet.

“Don't you dare leave that condom on the ground, asshole,” Arthur finally wheezed, and Eames threw the rubber into the garbage can, making an indignant noise.

“I wouldn't dream of it, darling,” Eames assured him, mock-offended, before leaning over and easily lifting him off the ground. “And aren't we beyond petty insults, love?”

“You tried to fumigate me in my own car,” Arthur reminded him, as Eames moved him to the bed and bundled him up against his chest, strong arms wrapping snugly around his waist. “We will never be beyond petty insults.”

“You'll remember, sweetheart, that you tried to drown me in my own bathtub,” Eames shot back, nuzzling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Which wasn't a pleasant experience, despite you rubbing your tight little body all over me.”

“Shut up,” Arthur replied, smacking his chest with a feeble hand. “I also broke in a few days earlier and very nearly shot you in the head. You really should do something about that back door lock.”

“Dammit,” Eames intoned, after a long moment's pause, and Arthur laughed.

~

The fluorescent lights fizzed plaintively overhead, nearing the end of their lives, but Arthur paid them no attention, eyes fixed on the figure before him.

Gary struggled futilely against the ropes binding him to his chair, his voice blocked crudely but efficiently by the rag shoved in his mouth. His eyes were blazing with betrayal, skittering wildly about the room as Arthur pulled out his gun and slowly removed the safety.

“I'm very sorry, Gary,” Arthur said, his voice calm and conversational, “but Mr. Eames' offer was far, far superior.”

He pulled the trigger and walked out, then, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up.

~

Mr. Stevens was found dead in a back alleyway a few days later, the victim of a brutal strangulation. When Arthur asked about it, Eames only huffed a laugh out against his ear and grinned, tugging him closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](inception-kink.livejournal.com/19632.html?thread=46130096#t46130096) prompt at [inception_kink](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/)


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